


AELDWS Drabbles

by kedgeree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur/Eames drabbles for the AELDWS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Primal Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is a separate drabble--check chapter notes for any drabble-specific warnings/ratings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team is on a victorious high after a job goes really well. Why not collect some souvenirs to remember it by?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: souvenir  
> Warnings: none

When they meet back at the warehouse, even  _Arthur_  is beaming.  
  
"That was  _awesome_!" Ariadne snarls.  
  
Eames whoops and scoops her into a spinning hug, and when they careen into Arthur there's nothing for it but for Eames to plant a sloppy kiss on his dimpled cheek. It's a sign of how well the job went that Arthur doesn't put him through the floor.  
  
In fact, he grins. "You swing a mean vine, Eames."  
  
"Darling, you've no idea," Eames winks. "Speaking of which, I  _very_  much enjoyed your loincloth."  
  
"Are you naturally primitive, or—"  
  
Ariadne gives them the  _idiots_  look. "Forget your loins! There were  _pterodactyls_!"  
  
Their extractor points at Arthur and giggles. "Loincloth."  
  
"I have to remember this job." Ariadne snaps her fingers. "Souvenirs! Everyone pick something!"  
  
The team scatters, rummaging through storage shelves.  
  
"Ooh, I'm taking  _this._ "  
  
"This is mine!"  
  
It's sweet, but bloody hell, Eames doesn't want trinkets. He wants to  _celebrate_. Drink and laugh and _fuck_ —  
  
He looks at Arthur.  
  
Arthur, with a private little smile, is pocketing a small torn-paper picture of a parrot Eames sketched during Arthur's briefing.  
  
Sleek, sharp, deadly Arthur wants Eames' silly sketch of a bird.  
  
And Eames just  _knows_.  
  
It only takes a hard tug, a dropped shoulder, and Arthur's yelp of surprise for Eames to get him into a fireman's carry.  
  
"I'm taking this," he announces to the suddenly wide-eyed room.  
  
"You might be, um," Ariadne smirks, "stretching the concept of a keepsake, Eames."  
  
"Not at all. I fully intend to keep him."  
  
"Naturally primitive, then," Arthur murmurs into Eames' shoulder.  
  
Eames feels a hand slide into his back trouser pocket and  _squeeze_ , and he can't get to the exit quickly enough. "Oh, darling. You've no idea."  
  
Ariadne raises her phone and snaps a photo. "And there's  _my_  souvenir."

 


	2. Specificity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames and Arthur come to terms. Or the other way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: negotiation  
> Warnings: none

"If we're doing this, Mr. Eames, we're doing it properly."  
  
"Might that mean within the decade?"  
  
"Patience. This agreement is as much about your satisfaction as mine."  
  
"Considerate of you to note, Arthur."  
  
"So. Item ten." Arthur bends his head to write again, "Your tongue in my ass. Minimum five minutes. Occurring prior to the use of your fingers as specified in item six."  
  
Eames offers the horrified-looking couple at the next table a friendly smile.  
  
"Eleven. You  _will_  spend the night."  
  
"Naturally. Perish the thought any aspect of this transaction might seem impersonal."  
  
"Twelve. Sucking your cock. The keywords here are  _enthusiastic_  and  _deep_. Reciprocation optional but strongly encouraged." Arthur glances up at Eames' mouth, frowns, and draws a firm line through his last sentence. "Reciprocation  _mandatory_. Minimum ten minutes each. And I'm adding a hair-pulling allowance."  
  
Eames shifts in his chair and adjusts the tented serviette in his lap. Because of  _course_  he's aroused. Bloody  _Arthur_.  
  
Arthur scans his document and nods, satisfied. "Sign if the terms are acceptable." He slides pen and paper across the tablecloth to Eames.  
  
And his eyes are  _dancing_.  
  
Eames huffs. Bloody, bastard,  _darling_  Arthur.  
  
Well, if they're making it  _official…_  
  
"One more condition." Eames circles the complete text, scribbles an addendum below, then signs his name with a flourish.  
  
Arthur leans over to read, "Minimum one  _hundred_  repetitions."  
  
"If we're doing this, darling," Eames holds Arthur's gaze, "we're doing it properly."  
  
The corner of Arthur's mouth curls up as he signs.


	3. Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is a rogue on the run. Arthur is the law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: precision  
> Warnings: none

Eames broke atmosphere with five silver Fangs snapping at his exhaust.  
  
The first shot skipped red sparks across his starboard wing. The second took out his jump engine. The Union Force squadron spread into the formation of a mocking smile between Eames and any hope of escape into the star-scattered black.  
  
The comm crackled. "Runner, surrender your vessel. This is your final warning."  
  
Eames angled to face the point ship, as close to eye-to-eye as the cold darkness between them would allow.  
  
"Hello, Arthur," he drawled.  
  
A third shot, aimed straight for his heart, Eames didn't expect. He swore violently, barely rolling clear.  
  
"Cease  _fire_!" Arthur's voice lashed across the open channel. "Stand the  _fuck_  down, Nash. This one is  _mine_."  
  
"It  _has_  been a merry chase, hasn't it, Arthur?"  
  
"Eames, I don't want to. Surrender."  
  
"You know me better, darling."  
  
Arthur's sensor light winked.  
  
Eames punched the timer. Hands trembling, he keyed the nav to 52'84'91 and locked wide eyes on the countdown clock.  
  
"Your choice, Mr. Eames. Goodbye."  
  
Triple-zero flashed, and Eames wrenched the yoke hard, baring his ship's poor belly.  
  
He'd always fancied, romantic that he was, when his thieving days were done he'd aim for the brightest star and just  _fly_. Straight on till morning.  
  
The explosion when Arthur's shot struck home almost jarred Eames's teeth out, kicked him back into atmosphere, kicked his dreams away. He spun down sick and hard in a desolate spiral of inky smoke.  
  
***  
  
Leaves whipping his face, sweat stinging his eyes, Arthur ran flat out in the near-darkness. His gait faltered when he saw torchlight, but he didn't slow until he'd slammed into Eames's embrace with a sob of relief that echoed off the forest canopy.  
  
"It's okay, pet, sweetheart, I'm okay."  
  
" _Too_  convincing, Eames.  _Gods_ , if I'd missed that squib—"  
  
"You didn't. You couldn't. A perfect shot." Eames gently plucked a twig from Arthur's hair. "My _perfect_  Arthur."  
  
Arthur, as always, glowed in the warmth of Eames's praise. "So, dead man…ready to start over?"  
  
"My brightest darling," Eames drew Arthur in tight, "I am ready to fly."


	4. Beautiful Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames lives somewhere between memory and reason these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: amnesia  
> Warnings: none

Arthur's Italian is terrible, and Eames doesn't even try not to laugh. Arthur feeds Eames slices of market-fresh Bel Paese while Eames chops the dinner vegetables. Together they build Eames a studio overlooking the rolling countryside, and they make love covered in sawdust and paint. Arthur pretends to hate Eames' yellow garden hat.  
  
When Arthur goes away for his work, Eames takes out the red casino chip Arthur keeps hidden in a secret, locked box and chases phantoms: hot pavement and the smell of cumin-spiced fish and exhaust fumes, Bhangra drums, rain pattering on palm leaves.  
  
Sometimes his name sounds strange to his own ears.  
  
Eames thinks he might not have been a good man, before. He's scarred. He's built and inked for defiance. And then there are the times they go into Rome, and Eames comes back with wallets and watches Arthur never sees, must never know about.  
  
Arthur cries when Eames is ridiculously excited for them to see Paris together for the first time.  
  
Sometimes it feels like a dream, meeting his Arthur.  
  
And if, sometimes, Arthur's eyes slide away when Eames says he loves him, it doesn't really matter, because Arthur always kisses him so desperately afterward.


	5. Come as You Are to the Costume Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that you mention it, Eames has always wanted to kiss himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: role reversal  
> Warnings: none

A six-foot-tall lobster is trying to blend into the wallpaper. A belly dancer backs up the stairs, protectively clutching her toffee apple, and Batman actually ducks behind the sofa as Arthur rounds on the  _other_  Arthur, with his slicked-back hair and  _perfect_  grey three-piece.  
  
"Hilarious," Arthur snarls. "Look! I'm laughing because I'm  _Eames_  and everything's a  _joke_  to me. Especially  _Arthur_."  
  
Eames glowers down Arthur's fat-lapelled, sherbet-striped shirt, pleated trousers, and the tattoos it took him  _three hours_  to draw on so Eames would finally see Arthur could be  _fun_  and  _playful_  too. "Whereas I,  _Arthur_ , would never grace a  _clown_  like  _Eames_  with even one of my precious dimples."  
  
"Because you're such an uptight stick-in-the-mud,  _Arthur_. And I know I think that because  _Dom_  told me!"  
  
"Um. Do I hear Phillipa?" The lobster blurts and flees.  
  
"Lovely, another opportunity for my patented  _Eames is disappointing_  look."  
  
"That's just how your face  _looks_ ," Arthur scowls furiously. "You can't help it."  
  
"I'm  _Arthur_  and I can't  _help_  driving Eames completely  _mad_ —"  
  
"But I know that because I  _know_  people so I must already  _know_  Arthur fucking  _adores_  my stupid clown clothes—"  
  
"—with my come-kiss-the-frown-off-me face and little waistcoat buttons and hands—"  
  
"—and stupid sex mouth and big stupid arms and—"  
  
"—that could hold your whole heart and—" Eames blinks. " _What?_ "  
  
Arthur stares. " _What?_ "  
  
So maybe Arthur doesn't  _need_  the costume, but...  
  
"I'm  _Eames_." Arthur takes a deep breath and looks Eames in the eye. "And Arthur is in love with me."


	6. Hazard Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has an idea about sweetening the pot before he signs on to this inception job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: canon / indecent proposal  
> Warnings: none

Eames leaned inside the bar's entrance door while he listened to his mobile frown. In the street, a skinny man in an orange kufi cap cycled slowly past a sandal vendor and a stand of bent-necked ouds.  
  
"A kiss."  
  
"You heard me correctly, pet."  
  
"Is that some Eames code for 'more money'? Because I know what Cobb's offering. You'd have to be building that temple to yourself in solid gold if you want more."  
  
"I'm more of a marble man."  
  
"Cold and blotchy?"  
  
"Classic and smooth. Darling, as ever, you mistake me. This isn't about money."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Since you need me," Eames purred.  
  
"I really don't."  
  
"No? Then why did you send your extractor for me?"  
  
"He isn't  _my_  extractor. And I didn't. I tried to stop him."  
  
"I see," Eames pouted. "Well, now you've hurt my feelings. So the price has gone up.  _Three_  kisses."  
  
Arthur sighed so heavily Eames could practically feel the breath against his cheek. "Where's Cobb?"  
  
"Not sure. The gunfire's a bit muffled, but he could only have run so far."  
  
" _What_?"  
  
"Oh, don't fuss, Arthur. He'll be fine." Eames picked at a peel of brown paint on the door jamb. "Apart from his heartbreak when I refuse this job."  
  
"Eames, this is completely unprofessional."  
  
"Precisely," Eames leered.  
  
"If that's all this is about, then no."  
  
Eames blinked. "Then there's something this could be about for yes?"  
  
"I…no. The answer's no. Jesus, Eames, you can't be serious."  
  
"Another mistake you've made about me, darling." Eames licked his lips. "And  _that's_  what this is about."  
  
The rumbling air conditioner in the window above dripped onto the sidewalk. Once. Twice. Four times.  
  
"Three kisses, Arthur. Am I on the job?"  
  
***  
  
When a black, Cobb-bearing car stopped at the curb, Eames smiled and got in.


	7. Starting Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes a body swap to get a new perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bodyswap  
> Warnings: none

Once Yusuf assures them the switch isn't permanent, Eames is  _delighted_.  
  
This isn't how he's always imagined being inside Arthur but it's almost as good. It's like slipping into a forgery, letting go, sinking his senses. Eames closes his eyes and runs the tip of his tongue along the smooth, even backs of Arthur's teeth. He hums in Arthur's baritone. He breathes in Arthur's scent. Perfectly-groomed, perfectly-packaged, bloody  _untouchable_  Arthur. All around him.  
  
"God," he groans, "this is  _brilliant_. If you'd like to explore me, too, darling, and I  _do_  encourage it, the  _best_  place to start—"  
  
" _Don't._ "  
  
Eames looks up sharply. It's a shock, the first time, being someone else. He's seen his own face this pale before, but not often. He's learned to hide fear on all his faces. But Arthur  _isn't_  a forger. Arthur's only used to controlling Arthur, perfectly-packaged, untouchable, and right now he's gone a bit wild-eyed. Eames feels like an asshole.  
  
"I won't, Arthur. I wouldn't."  _Starting right now._  "It's okay, love. Just breathe."  
  
"My face itches."  
  
"There you go." Eames pets Arthur's knee and settles in to wait for Yusuf's reversal compound. "Come on, then. What else is wrong? Tell me."  
  
"My finger's bent funny. And I'm too  _thick_. My mouth feels weird…"  
  
\---  
  
Arthur throws a flat, white box on Eames' desk the next morning. The tastefully-patterned linen shirt is a truly Arthurian gift—practical, beautiful, and wrapped with a ribbon of censure.  
  
"Yours felt horrible. It's not a thank you."  
  
"Darling," Eames grins, "you are  _very_  welcome."  
  
"I  _said_  it's not a thank you."  
  
Eames winks, because Arthur's cheeks have gone pink. "I meant if you'd still like to explore me."  
  
\---  
  
Arthur, it turns out, isn't untouchable at all. If you start at the right place.


	8. Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur likes peaches. Eames smokes sly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: detective noir AU / smoke  
> Warnings: mild violence, explicit language, dubious consent

"I can't pay you," he says.  
  
He's got eyes like rainclouds and a mouth like a peach.  
  
"Sure you can," I say.  
  
I can never resist the pretty ones.  
  
I put him on his knees on the thin, moldy carpet.  
  
"Hang on, peach." I open up my fly real wide. "I don't like to get the suit dirty."  
  
The office carpet, that's not worth cleaning. But the suit, that cost money.  
  
#  
  
He says his name is Eames. He says they stole his dead mother's pearls. I don't give a shit about the sob story, but he does a good job with my dick, so I'll do a good job as his dick. I tell him so, because I think that's pretty funny.  
  
It's the first time I see him smile. He's got teeth like crooked tombstones.  
  
"Suck me again," I say.  
  
"You'll find the necklace?"  
  
I twist my hand into his collar.  
  
"Suck me again."  
  
#  
  
I have to beat the both of them bruised and bloody, violet and roses for my sweetheart.  
  
When I tell him, wear your pearls, he says no. Some things are delicate, and Eames likes it rough.  
  
"These don't belong to anyone's mother," I say. I'm no fool. Eames is slippery, like his slop-slit cock and his fake silk shirts. His fingers smell like cigarettes, but I've never seen him smoke.  
  
He smiles his moldering tombstone smile. "I heard you were the best."  
  
By the time I'm done with him, he's wearing pearl anyway.  
  
#  
  
We ride out of town in the morning, get a couple Egg McWhateverTheFucks and eat them in the parking lot. It's quiet, except for the smack and click of teeth in meat, and the sun is bright on the bug-spattered windshield. I think maybe this is what normal people do, eat their sausage biscuits in the sunshine.  
  
"You wanna fuck in the bathroom?" I ask.  
  
Eames licks grease off his lips and points a gun at my face.  
  
We aren't normal people.  
  
"Why, baby?"  
  
"Because I don't like to get the suit dirty, either." His eyes look like bullets. "Thanks for the ride, Arthur."  
  
When he shoves me, I go down hard, palms scraping pavement, in a smear of spilled soda and special sauce.  
  
I've never been so in love.  
  
And it hits me like tires spitting gravel in my face: I'm going to need a new suit.


	9. Yusuf's Potion #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf tests out a new compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: in somnacin veritas (i.e. confessions under the influence of somnacin)  
> Warnings: none

"He's just so  _beautiful_. Yusuf, aren't his eyes  _beautiful_?"  
  
"Gorgeous," Yusuf snorted, then winced as Eames jerked him aside by his elbow. "Ow! What?"  
  
"You gave Arthur a  _love_  potion?"  
  
"It was just a test! A new compound to make the mark more suggestible."  
  
"Eames, look at your  _arms_. How come you never hug me? You'd be the  _best_  hugger."  
  
Yusuf snickered. "He's surprisingly… pure-minded, isn't he?"  
  
"You hug Ariadne," Arthur said plaintively.  
  
"Shut  _up,_  Yusuf," Eames glowered.  
  
"I want to suck you off."  
  
"Aaand strike that  _pure-minded_  bit."  
  
"Christ." Eames ran a hand over his face. "Is he going to remember this?"  
  
"Your sexy face makes me masturbate. A lot."  
  
"Ah, every word."  
  
"I want to kiss you, Eames. For hours, after we fuck. And then make you pancakes with blueberries, even if it isn't morning. Do you like pancakes?"  
  
"And it's not  _exactly_  going to wear off. Not the way you're thinking."  
  
"What  _exactly_  does that mean?"  
  
"See, it's a scopolamine derivative, concentrated, except without the usual side effects—"  
  
"Yusuf."  
  
"It  _means_ … it's not a  _love potion_ ," Yusuf smirked. "It's a truth serum."  
  
Eames blinked. "Oh."  
  
"I like pancakes." Arthur nodded solemnly. "But I like you much more."  
  
Eames took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeve. "Yusuf, hook me up."  
  
"What, you want to babble like some lovesick idiot, too?"  
  
"I'm about to anyway." Eames looked at Arthur and smiled. Like a lovesick idiot. "I just don't want there to be any doubt it's the truth."


	10. Anywhere But Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur always thought he was the strong one, but at the end of the world it's Eames who takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: gift / apocalypse AU  
> Warnings: apocalypse-typical sad things

Arthur twists his hands. Tiny bones snap under fur and Arthur can't stifle the pathetic sound he makes.

Eames is there in an instant, arms around Arthur's chest. "You aren't here," he soothes. Eames always soothes, voice soft in Arthur's ear. "You're in our study with the big, bright windows and the view of the Seine. You're making a model ship."

"What kind?"

"A Viking ship. A _dragon_ ship, painted red."

"But I broke it," Arthur says roughly. "Why would I break it?"

"Because fuck the Vikings. Right bastards."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "Yeah. Fuck the Vikings."

"Here, sweetheart, wipe that…paint off your hands. And we can eat."

 ............

 It's just a storage shed, their home now, but sometimes the way the green-tinted light hits the dirty window reminds Arthur of Paris. A rainy spring day.

He curls into the warm body under the rough blanket. "Eames?"

"Yes, Arthur."

Arthur feels Eames's rainy-day smile against his shoulder, because of course Eames knows what Arthur wants.

"But we must be quick," Eames murmurs, mischievous, pushing his hand into Arthur's pants. "The Culpepers are coming for tea."

Arthur grins and rubs his nose through Eames's hair. "We don't know any Culpepers."

"Not _here_. But, darling, you aren't here. You're at the flat in Paris. By the big window. Where _anyone_ could see you."

"Then go slower," Arthur groans, biting his lip. "I want them to see us."

 ............

 "I have to get through." Arthur's fingers are white around the sledge hammer handle. "We need those supplies."

"You _will_ get through. Nobody's better at this than you."

Arthur hangs his head. "I know."

They're stacked up against the warehouse walls like ants. Girls still in dresses, old men in cardigans. They _all_ need those supplies.

Eames takes a long look at Arthur's face and his eyes darken. "You aren't here. It's Mardis Gras. You're collecting beads. That's all. Just bright beads."

"Don't, Eames."

"It's okay, Arthur."

Arthur swallows. "No. But I'll get through anyway."

 ............

"Happy birthday, darling!"

Arthur blushes, delighted.

"Did you think I'd forget?" Eames gives Arthur an indulgent smile. A package appears from behind his back.

Arthur tears eagerly into the old newspaper wrapping. When he sees the painting, he laughs.

"You don't like it?"

"Very funny, Eames. This is terrible! Christ, these… muddy colors and blobby shapes. It's like something _I'd_ paint!"

He looks up. The shed is empty.

The soft green light looks like spring rain.

The little mud-blob view from their apartment window shakes in his hands.

"It's okay, Arthur." He waits until his breathing slows, until his heart stops pounding, and then Arthur closes his eyes and whispers, "You aren't here…"

 ............

 "Eames, you were in Mombasa. When it happened."

"No, darling, remember? I left early."

"Why?"

"To see you."

Arthur smiles. "What for?"

"To tell you I love you, silly. I could hardly let the world end without telling you, now could I?"

Arthur sighs happily. This is his favorite story. "Tell me again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, sorry to end on such a sad one. There's a happy fic over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5163707) if that will help! :)


	11. Professional Dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur needs just a moment's escape from his terrible job at Cobol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: locked out  
> Warnings: none

Arthur scans the rooftop to make sure he's alone before he takes a deep breath and shouts, "FUCK!"

It feels good. Even better when he adds two enthusiastic middle fingers and some hopping.

"FUCK YOUUUU," Arthur sings, waggling his crotch at the propped-open access door, entrance back into the torturous Gehenna that is his soul-sucking career.

The applause is unexpected.

Arthur is proud he's the sort of person who can maintain his professional dignity while whirling and yelping.

Then he hears the heavy, closing _clunk_ of the weighted door. Which is probably that thing his heel whacked during the dignified whirling.

"Shit," he says.

A man in black waves at him cheerfully.

Arthur smooths his waistcoat. "I didn't see you there."

"Can't say I'm sorry, darling." The cheerful man winks. He's handsome. And British. And _handsome_. "I was enjoying the show."

After a moment's thought, Arthur says, "Shut up." He feels it's a strong comeback, under the circumstances.

The man seems unfazed. "Do you dance here often?" he asks, eyes twinkling. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder.

"It's the only place in the building without cameras," Arthur sniffs.

The man grins crookedly. "I know."

"We're trapped up here now."

"Are we?" The man lowers the backpack, which gaps to reveal a set of pick-like metal tools. Maybe he works in IT. He looks Arthur up and down. "Bugger."

"Maybe for hours."

"How fortunate I've nothing pressing until _after_ regular business hours."

"So." Arthur scuffs his Salvatore Ferragamo. "Any ideas for passing the time?"

The man's full mouth quirks. "Perhaps I might have the next dance."

Arthur is proud he's the sort of person who can maintain his professional dignity while blushing and grinning.

Probably nothing terrible will happen if he misses a few hours of work, after all.


	12. Departures and Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is going to Vienna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: altered, post-canon  
> Warnings: none

"I'm going to Vienna," Arthur announces. His ears are bright pink.  
  
Eames knows:  
  
Nothing's for keeps. He helps people learn, sometimes. Everything changes. The baggage carousel cycles round and round. Sleep and shift into someone else, and again, and again. Contract and release. Wake up, change clothes, hair, accent, wallet, wash off last night's lover. Maybe there's coffee. Maybe there's crunchy brown toast, once wheat stood tall in a sun-gold field. Move on. Dream again and change a man's mind.  
  
Earn the flash of an elusive smile.  
  
Over and over, the moon draws the water toward heaven, then lets it fall. The wind makes monuments with stolen sand. When a job is done, even the tightest of teams turn away and scatter. Out the big glass window, watch airplanes climb the sky, which changes magenta to blue to orange, and settle back onto the earth, which changes green to yellow to white. With a too-soft gaze it will all blur into grey.  
  
But guarded, dispassionate Arthur's ears are pink when he tells Eames, urgently, "I'm going to Vienna."  
  
And just like that:  
  
"What a coincidence." Eames touches Arthur's sleeve, and his whole life changes, irrevocably and forever. "So am I."


	13. An Apple a Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur favors a nutritionally balanced diet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bitter  
> Warnings: none

"Darling." Eames frowned at the spreadsheet in his hand. "What is this?"  
  
Arthur hummed inquisitively, leaning over Eames's shoulder. "Oh. That's." His fingers spasmed in Eames's hair. "Nothing. Just… give it to me."  
  
"Water. Orange juice. Tomato juice."  
  
"Where did you find that?" Arthur attempted a lunge for the paper.  
  
Eames jerked it away, reading at arm's length. "Leafy greens. Melon."  
  
"It's a grocery list."  
  
"It has bar charts. And my name."  
  
"I think we should have sex," Arthur said firmly. "Right now."  
  
"Saltiness, bitterness, viscosity—" Eames blinked. Stared. "Arthur… are you _grading_ my _semen_?"  
  
"Um."  
  
"Ninety-two percent _bitter_? Oh my god."  
  
"That was only after the kale. Yusuf said—"  
  
"YUSUF? OH MY GOD," Eames wailed, and dove for cover under the sofa cushion, where he was going to live the rest of his natural life, thank you very much, and never look Arthur in the eye again. "You never _had_ to… god, Arthur, you could have _said_."  
  
"Eames, it's not like that."  
  
Eames curled protectively around his bitter parts. " _Ninety-two percent_."  
  
"Only after the kale." Arthur petted Eames's back, soothing. "I just needed a project. We haven't had a job in a while."  
  
"I thought you liked doing... _that_ ," Eames pouted forlornly.  
  
"Actually," Arthur licked his lips, "I _love_ it. And you. And, um, charts."  
  
Eames sniffed. "Pity I'm too humiliated to ever have another erection for you to test."  
  
"Are you sure about that?" Arthur leaned in to nuzzle Eames's ear. "Because I just bought a fresh pineapple."

 


	14. Snake Charmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man walks into a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: skin, magical realism AU  
> Warnings: none

On a heavy spring evening, a man walks into Mal's bar. Calls himself Jack. He's got three dollars in his pocket, so he orders a six dollar whiskey. He can get money. The bartender gives him a narrow-eyed look, and he thinks he can get that, too.   
  
He has a good mouth, this time.   
  
~~   
  
Summer nights are close and hot in the low country. They slither over each other's backs.   
  
Mal hears Arthur in his room over the bar. Jack. Then Simon. Amir. Francis. Diego. Christian.   
  
_Maman_ would have called him a _snake charmer_.   
  
~~   
  
Steal, shed, slip town. The first lesson Eames's father tanned into one of his skins. Eames learned. He's never gone back for seconds.   
  
Not until Arthur.   
  
~~   
  
Arthur has a type. Slicked-back, garish. Shiny watches. Gamblers. Grifters. One that tattooed Arthur's name over his heart. One that picked Yusuf's pocket. One that called Arthur _darling_.   
  
Arthur enthralled them all.   
  
~~   
  
Eames is lucky, isn't he, that Arthur fucks so many men. Bites Diego's thighs, fucks Simon in the back of his Ford. Sucks Amir's thick cock and Pinky's tiny one. Poses, cheek smudged black, for Christian's clumsy charcoal sketches. Lets Leslie read him poetry in bed.   
  
But the next one won't be called Harry or Rafe or fucking Trevor.   
  
He'll be called _Eames_.   
  
~~   
  
A man walks into Mal's bar. His eyes find Arthur and light like burning leaves.   
  
"Is it a spell, _chérie_?" _Maman_ taught her: there _is_ magic in the world. "What you do to them?"   
  
Arthur's rubbing a small, iridescent disc between his fingers. Like a sequin. Or a scale. And when he sees the man in the doorway, his eyes catch the same fire. "I think I love him."   
  
~~   
  
The low country's winter-gold grass crackles in the cold, and Eames coils around Arthur's heat.


	15. Sunday Morning Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's been building a maze. So has Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the road not taken  
> Warnings: none

"So, this is where it begins." Arthur points. He's worked for days on the massive, twisting maze, and his cheeks are flushed with such pride Eames could kiss him.  
  
So maybe he does.  
  
Maybe Arthur kisses back, _yes_. Maybe he tastes of licorice, sharp and sweet. And Eames's blood sings, and Eames's breath sings, and if his dick could sing, it would trumpet the William Tell Overture. _Yes._  
  
But in the morning, Arthur's gone. Maybe they fuck again in Monaco. Maybe they don't. Out of their system, right? Eames finds another cock to suck, like he doesn't care, like he isn't flawed and fragile under his shiny coat. Look at the shiny coat, how it catches the sun.  
  
Or. In the morning, Arthur's still there. And they lease a green convertible, drive to Marseilles in the rain, top up, windows steamy, and they're going to fuck again soon. And often. And hard. It's raining, but Eames feels like he's caught the sun.  
  
Soon, Eames has to take his socks off if he wants to fuck, has to hang his wet towel on the hook. They read on Sunday mornings. Boxers, messy hair. Arthur hums into his coffee, and Eames puts his feet in Arthur's lap. Sunday afternoons, Arthur frowns over Eames's painting, asks what it is, and laughs when Eames lies.  
  
But they aren't Sunday morning men with coffee tables and curtains. They have guns, silver cases, places to be. Run the town, run on empty, run down.  
  
Run... away.  
  
 _God_ , what has he done? He pounds on Arthur's door, _please_. Weeps when it opens, and finally understands why you leave the knife _in_ , because it's always been Arthur, darling cream-and-obsidian Arthur, _please_.  
  
 _Any price._  
  
Eames bought this ticket long ago.  
  
And it's okay. Eames goes soft at the edges, like a watercolor. He wears cardigans and makes his own wine — sour apple. And it's okay that he has too much jowl and not enough hair and nothing's like he expected. It's Christmas, with presents on the coffee table. Eames wrapped them himself. All the tags say _for Arthur_.  
  
Maybe he's _not_ alone at the end, hands gone useless with knots and need, all alone, with his wet towel crumpled on the floor. Maybe there's a fluttering curtain and someone holding his useless hand, like he wanted when he was a scared little boy. And he waits for his Arthur in the soil and the wind of a hillside in France, like there's all the time in the world.  
  
They have time. If Arthur says _yes_.  
  
"—Eames?" Arthur frowns. Shirt sleeves rolled up, a strand of hair out of place, he's worked for _days_ , tight-assed and scrunched as ever, big hands so careful that Eames could kiss him. "Are you even paying attention?"  
  
"I am, darling." Eames traces a finger along the edge of the labyrinth and takes a deep breath. "This is where it begins."  
  
This is just the beginning.  
  
It's going to be a hell of a ride.

 


End file.
